The Broken Language of Love
The language of love is wordless.
See that simple yellow and white daisy
in the green meadow?
Go uproot it,
snatch it from its perfect setting
that place Perfection made for it.
Now it is in your hand,
it is still lovely,
but something is missing,
something is wrong.
it was never meant to be manhandled,
even with appreciation or love,
that kind of love is possessive,
selfish, mistaken.
You must seek to understand it,
describe it, know it.
You must investigate, and dissect
its beauty
and so you begin to pull is apart.
petal by petal
you despoil it,
until the flower no longer exists
as a whole vision,
as a perfection of form.
It is only parts now, it is only words,
words for love,
and not love itself.
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